


A Lady's Crush

by Ariel_Riddle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age of Potter 2018, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Blood Purity Prejudice, BtBFN, Clueless Harry, F/M, Harmony - Freeform, Historical Romance, Lust Potion/Spell, Marriage of Convenience, Period Piece, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Pining Hermione, Post-War, Regency, S&R: CRW, Sexual Manipulation, magical au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-06-10 15:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Riddle/pseuds/Ariel_Riddle
Summary: War hero Harry needs to marry, but he has no taste for the slew of witches being ushered before him. He comes up with a scheme to marry his best friend and fellow war heroine, lowly Muggle-born Hermione Granger.





	1. A Scandalous Proposition

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [AgeOfPotter](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/AgeOfPotter) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> Hermione believes herself doomed to forever pine after the man she could never have—war hero Harry Potter—and the greatest wizard of his time. As a muggle-born and believing herself to be no great beauty, she can only entertain such notions of marriage in her fantasies—a secret she’ll carry to her grave. Fortune smiles down on her when an unexpected opportunity falls in her lap and she finds the object of her affections begging for her hand in marriage. Fortunate... so long as he never finds out her secret.
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> _A/N: Written for Age of Potter 2018. A just-for-funsies-contribution as I helped my dear friend Kaarina Riddle admin the comp. Still, you know I can't pass up the opportunity to do Regency! Check out the fest winner— ninjafairy86's— awesome tomione and all of the other super dope af contributions. This will be a multi-chapter fic—I have 10 chapters plotted. I should be posting the second chapter within the week *fingers crossed* To the WC fans—ch23 is halfway written and I hope to send it to my beta this week as well! Characters may be OOC given the situation, but I try to keep them as close to character as I see them. Bingblot has a wonderful Regency harmony and it's an epic-length, complete fic. I definitely take inspiration from that story and HIGHLY recommend it. I assure you-aside from the "we must marry" Regency trope-this one will be different. I tend to write Harrys not every harmony fan likes, so I'm warning you now—I like an edgy/possessive/borderline asshole/borderline manipulative/possibly-affected-by-horcruxes Harry. I mean, I write dramione/tomione so it shouldn't be that surprising *winks* Cover made by me and full version uploaded to Pinterest. Hope you enjoy Xx_
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> _Alpha love: Thank you to the lovely Elle Morgan-Black for looking over this first chapter!_
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> _Disclaimer: All canon characters, plots, and situations from the Harry Potter universe belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this writing._
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> _Warnings: This is a Regency alternate-universe and with that comes typical period sexism. Additionally, characters may be slightly OOC due to the era in which this story takes place. I already warned about the liberties I take with Harry. Hermione may be slightly muted—suppressed by the time and her blood status as she is. You may find a lot of angst, frustrating miscommunication, lots of forbidden-ness, lust potions, and maybe even some sexual manipulation—I'm not above using any/all of these things!_

****

**~oOo*oOo~**

Hermione watched Harry crest the grassy knoll as he drew closer to her. His movements were lithe and graceful like she'd imagine a wildcat's to be. He didn't walk so much as he prowled. Even from this distance, the piercing green of his eyes skewered her with its intensity. His hair - as dark as a moonless night - stood out against his alabaster skin. Even more enticing was the power that clung to his person in a nebulous, raw fury. Merlin, but she could sense his energy from here. It only grew larger the nearer he drew.

Lord Harry Potter.

War Hero and Defeater of Voldemort.

Her very _best friend._

So loyal to a fault, he would even still deign to be friends with _her_ \- a mere Muggle-born - as lowly and as common as the dirt residing on the ground. Yet still he flashed her that brilliant smile - the one that made her heart clench in her chest. The one that made her pulse stutter in her wrists. The one she had no right to be the recipient of. The one he was giving her now. Even now she could make out the gaggle of girls he'd left behind at the manor in his pursuit of _her_. How they hated her. How she could understand the depth of their hatred. Harry was a prize and he'd yet to declare interest in any eligible witch. The only girl he talked to on a regular basis seemed to be Hermione, however strange a happenstance that was.

But they had a history—so there was that.

"Miss Granger." He was there, _right there_ before her, and he was capturing her hand in his, sweeping his lips down to place a chaste kiss on the outside of her curled fingers where the material of her gloves cut off. "Aren't you a sight?"

 _Harry,_ her heart sang. "My Lord," she curtseyed, remembering propriety. They were no longer on the run and away from the watchful eye of the public. Society and it's oppressive rules reigned supreme in Ottery St Catchpole. She injected her voice with false pleasantness. "What could possibly motivate you to break away from your adoring friends?"

"The desire to seek out my _best friend_ , of course." He darted his gaze to meet hers, his eyes sharp and not missing a thing, especially her deception. "I don't like to see you off by yourself," he reminded her quietly as he had countless times before. "Just here, lingering in the shadows. You should be around people."

 _They hate me, Harry_ , she wanted to explain to him. _They only tolerate my presence because of you. Really, they want nothing to do with me. I don't belong here - in High Society - I'm supposed to be with my own kind._ Instead of burdening him with the melancholy she felt, she forced her tone lighthearted and carefree. "I'm hardly social like you and Ronald. I clam up around other people rather spectacularly." She smiled and ducked away, facing the line of trees opposite of the manor and making a valiant effort to contain her composure, but the insufferable man didn't allow her to turn away from him.

He circled around her and grasped her shoulders and _squeezed._ Then he let his hands trail down - one to her waist and the other to her wrist - before leading her to the cover of a majestic beech tree and pulling her down beside him. She was acutely aware of his touch, however light it was.

She could do nothing but comply. He was always her one and only weakness. She'd never been capable of denying him anything. So though the more rational portion of her mind may have wanted to point out that being alone together was not suitable for their reputations - certainly not for _hers_ \- she couldn't resist following him. She would follow him to the ends of the earth.

"Hermione," he said affectionately, and it didn't escape her how improper such a use of her first name sounded. They were no longer on the run - no longer hunting horcruxes or fighting Death Eaters. Society's rules _had_ to be adhered to. His fingertips ran soothing circles into the skin of her wrist and she fought to keep her eyelashes from fluttering shut in delightful bliss. "How I've missed you." The pressure from his fingertips increased, sending titillating tingles radiating from her wrist all the way to her chest. "You've no idea how it's been adjusting to life on the outside. I bloody _hate_ it. After a whole year? I got used to your cooking… used to your reading… used to your company. The fact that I can only see you for brief periods of time and under the watchful eye of some obese, nosy, old maid…"

Hermione chuckled as she thought of Duchess Umbridge.

"It _kills me._ You would think being the _Savior-of-the-Wizarding-World_ I'd be granted _some allowances_. That I'd be permitted to see my friends, at the very least. But no. I've been shuffled around from one place to the next so fast it makes my head spin." The warm comfort of his large hand left her waist to rifle through his hair, and she mourned the loss even as she tried to keep from staring at the side of his face. "And you should be there with me - not just Ronald - but _you._ I know you were at the beginning, but you _still_ should be. Do these ungrateful gits not realize if it weren't for you they'd be paying taxes to a new ruler right now? A ruler who would demand blood in his monthly stipends? It's utter fuckery." His eyes widened and he clapped his mouth shut with his hand, a sheepish grin creeping around his fingers. "I'm _so_ sorry, Hermione."

Her breathing hastened. She did _so love it_ when he forgot himself and used obscenities around her. He and Ronald grew so accustomed to her presence, they used to do it all the time during their seventh year spent traveling as if a lady weren't even present. It made her insides heat up for some unfathomable reason she couldn't quite understand. She only wanted him to do it again. But gentlemen didn't curse in front of ladies - and despite being Muggle-born - she still was a lady.

"I'm just a bit out of sorts, is all. It's this adjusting back to regular life. Trying to accept there's no danger anymore. I know _you_ understand." He flashed her another one of his trademark, devastatingly handsome smiles. "You always get everything," he reached over to affectionately ruffle her hair over her hat and she once again fought to remain in control of her reactions. Harry was only treating her as a friend would—as he would Ronald or someone equally as close, only he seemed to forget she was a member of the opposite sex. "I just—," he broke away to glare at the woods lining the manor as if they had somehow personally offended him, "everything is so different now."

"Lord Harry—."

"Please, Hermione. Not while we're alone."

When he looked at her with those wide green eyes, she could deny him nothing. "Harry," she amended. "I'm so sorry you've had trouble adjusting. Britain owes you _everything_." She didn't bother burdening him with the fact that she couldn't find a flat in a suitable district to live in and had resorted to living in an all girls boarding house on the outskirts of Diagon Alley. That no company wished to hire her regardless of her NEWT scores and she was finding it difficult to locate work anywhere, even if she was a war hero. She couldn't even get a job in the lower levels of Gringotts as a novice Cursebreaker, though Ronald had promised to put in a good word to his brother. Still, all her troubles seemed to fade into the background when Harry started speaking. He consumed every waking thought, and there wasn't much room left for her.

"Women bloody throw themselves at me. It's revolting." He pressed his lips in a petulant line. "Ronald likes it well enough, but I can do without _their attention_. They all want something from me… and I'm _loathe_ to give it. I won't find myself enslaved to the wiles of a female. That's hardly what I spent the last seven years fighting to do."

A lump formed in her throat. "I'm sure Ronald doesn't find _himself_ enslaved with each and every witch he beds," she said before she could stop herself. "He seems quite pleased with the attention."

She regretted voicing the bitter thought as soon as she felt the intensity of his emerald-hard gaze on the side of her face. He missed nothing. The sharp instincts of a dueller. It was no wonder he was accepted into the Auror program—and at such a young age to boot. It was a mistake to speak so candidly of a man's pastimes in his presence, and something no lady would do.

"It's their intentions, Hermione," he surprised her by ignoring her slip-up and instead trying to explain himself. "I don't want to bed them when they have other goals in mind—when they see me as a _resource_. Nothing puts the fire out more quickly than that."

A fierce blush ignited up her cheeks at the mention of _bedding_ and she looked straight ahead, afraid to meet his eyes.

Harry swore. "I'm sorry, Hermione." He curled around to look at her, that trademark boyish grin she'd fell in love with long ago, firmly in place. "Sometimes I forget you're a girl."

She reared back as if stung.

"Damn! I'm sorry again. I keep mucking things up, don't I? What I mean is, you're just so easy to talk to—not at all like _other girls_. You've no idea how painful it's been being without you all this time. We've been inseparable since we were ruddy children!" His previously mischievous gaze narrowed measurably. "And now to be separated after all this time by Society and its silly rules. Well, I hate it. I miss our time together. If someone had bothered to ask me which member of the Golden Trio I'd rather be saddled with, I'd of course choose you. You know that, don't you?"

Hermione beamed, her heart lifting as if it were made of feathers. Harry smiled back at her fondly, perhaps as if she were a cute pet he wished to take away with him to his next adventure in life. It didn't matter—she wanted to _go_. She wanted to be with him _always_. And the fact that he was expressing his sorrow over missing her caused her to forget all the struggles she'd endured since coming back to the real world. He seemed to have that effect of making her forget everything. Her world always narrowed down to just him. It always had and she supposed it always would. Now that she was older—now that she had _seen_ things she likely shouldn't have—her daydreams concerning him had taken a decidedly darker turn, but he _still_ consumed her thoughts just as he always had. More so than ever before, even.

"I'm to marry, you know."

Just like that, Hermione felt as if she'd been lanced through the heart. She physically had to stop herself from clutching her chest, sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that blood was pouring from a gaping hole in her heart. She let it fall in a thick river trickling down to her lap and then on to the ground, purposefully ignoring it and not breaking away from the green gaze that trapped her. She refused to show a flicker of the thoughts that crossed her mind— that positively gnawed at her —as she met his hard stare.

Over the years, she'd become rather excellent at concealing her emotions from him. She was a regular bloody Slytherin.

"Oh?" She was surprised she was able to keep the tremble—even the overwhelming anguish—from her voice. Harry— _married_! Another woman would finally take him away from her forever. There would be no more Harry and Hermione. It simply wouldn't be tolerated by _his wife_.

He would be gone from her forever.

"Yes," he told her bleakly, "it's unavoidable, I'm afraid. A clause in my parent's will. Perhaps they once believed that had I been settled down with a wife I'd be of a more reliable state of mind to manage all of my responsibilities such an inheritance would bring. But they didn't stop to consider I might not be _ready_ for marriage, or how many women would see the situation as a sodding _opportunity._ They couldn't have possibly anticipated how eager the Dursleys would be to get their hands on my assets should I not meet my family's requirements. It's all messed up, Hermione. They've cornered me, this time. I know my parents never meant to put me in this predicament, but with Sirius gone and Remus gone, there's no one to look out for me. I have no choice but to comply."

She thought she may choke on the tears forming in her throat. As it was, her voice came out unusually husky. "Lady Pansy has been vying for your attention. She does have a sizable dowry."

"Yes," Harry stroked his chin, drawing Hermione's attention to his barely there five-o'clock shadow. She remembered when he started shaving in fifth year which seemed like a lifetime ago. He looked somehow older than his eighteen years. Perhaps that was what a war and responsibilities did to a young man. Maybe she looked like an old maid already—what she was destined to become eventually. "The Parkinsons have been pushing their daughter rather earnestly, and she has sprouted into a rather lovely young women. But Merlin, Hermione, I can't exactly forget how eager she was to turn me in, you remember?"

Hermione lightly placed a hand on his arm, gritting her teeth against the electric currents she felt when she touched his heated muscles. "She was just scared, Harry." Merlin, how in the bloody hell was she _defending Lady Pansy_? Even now she was sure Lady Pansy was one of the girls standing above the hill and trying to glance around the tree in order to peer at them. Lady Pansy would sooner cast a slicing hex on Hermione's throat than defend _her_ , but still Hermione was compelled to speak up for the former Slytherin.

"I don't need _her_ family's Galleons." Harry sounded an awful-lot like a spoilt and pampered boy. "Once I'm permitted entry into my vaults at Gringotts—that'll be plenty enough money for me. I'm hardly desperate enough to marry for Galleons, let alone to be used by a family who only wishes to further their political advancements."

"But then who will you have… Miss Ginevra Weasley?" The wheels of her head began to turn as she considered his most suitable prospects. "But I even heard she's accepted a proposal from Zabini. Do you think she'd have you?" Even as she said the final words, Hermione knew the answer—Miss Weasley would drop _everything_ if Harry Potter came calling, even her favorable match with Zabini. A pang ricocheted through Hermione's heart. She didn't want to see Harry bound to any of her former classmates—least of all Miss Weasley.

"Hermione!" His voice sounded scolding and she tried to keep from jumping. "Ronald's little sister? That simpering child who used to follow me around Hogwarts? Do you really believe I could deal with that Weasley temper?"

She felt her cheeks go impossibly redder, and yes—even her temper flared at his insult. "Since I'm _so clearly_ running out of ideas, why don't you just do me a favor and enlighten me as to who you have in mind. It's obvious you have _somebody_. Did she even go to Hogwarts _at all_?"

To her bewilderment, he shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, she did go to Hogwarts."

Feeling fueled by anger mingled with righteous indignation, she pressed on. "Well, who is it, Harry? Who will be the future Lady Potter?"

He'd been ducking his head down before, as if he were embarrassed, his long lashes sweeping against his cheeks, but when she had challenged him he'd suddenly looked up and purged the distance between them, invading her space in the process. His hands trailed along her wrists before finding and interlacing with her fingers. Her breath hitched as a result, feeling as daft as he accused her of being for entertaining the notion for an instant that she could possibly reprimand him. She suddenly felt small again.

"I was hoping," he stepped closer and her eyes narrowed in just on his lips as they moved when he spoke, "that you might do me the honor."

It was entrancing, really, to watch his perfectly kissable lips form words she could hardly focus on. She sometimes didn't compute the words he said until seconds later. It was terribly embarrassing, but she wasn't sure if he noticed. He certainly never commented on it before. She knew without a doubt he would withdraw from her completely if he had any inkling how amorous her feelings for him really were. It took every ounce of focus to keep from slipping. Yet when his words did penetrate the haze of her mind brought on thanks to his proximity, she could hardly muddle through what exactly he'd meant by them. _Do him the honor?_ She stifled a snort. _He didn't mean…_ Baffled, she was helpless but to voice her confusion. "I'm... sorry?"

His smirk widened, and he squeezed her hands tighter where his fingers connected with hers. It was terribly intimate and wildly inappropriate. " _Hermione,_ " her heart melted at the sound of her name on his lips. "I wish to marry _you_."

She pressed her hand to her chest indicating herself, as if the gesture would be enough to confirm the insanity of his words. "Me? I don't understand." Her heart pounded in her chest erratically.

He stepped forward and pressed his forehead to hers affectionately—as if they were old friends—Merlin, but they were! It was _she_ who was losing her head. "Hermione, you're so _funny_." It was hard not to bristle at the fond inflection of his tone. "For someone so brilliant, you really can be rather slow when it comes to… other matters."

" _Other matters_." Oh, Merlin—did she just squeak? How mortifying! If she didn't want Harry—her best friend and the only person who had ever seen anything _more_ in her—to look at her as if she were one of the vapid girls he so despised, she needed to rein in her tumultuous feelings and do so quickly. "You couldn't p-possibly be serious."

"Of course I am." Green eyes darkened down at her. Good God, but he was tall! "Don't you see what a perfect solution it is? I already know how easy it is to live with you. You and I get along perfectly." He dropped one of her hands to cup her cheek and she resisted the terrible compulsion to lean into his touch. "I _know you._ I know you're pure of heart. You don't have ulterior motives. You care for me as I do for you. A marriage between us both would be advantageous—mutually beneficial. Do you see?"

Hermione felt her body go numb. She felt her breath get stuck in her lungs. What he was suggesting—and so sincerely!—it was madness. He clearly hadn't considered the repercussions of such a rash move, in typical Gryffindor fashion. It was… nearly _unheard of._ A noble wizard of good standing like Harry did not up and go marry a Muggle-born like herself. It was political ruin!

Well.

There was that one case when a certain Potter senior defied the ton and married the woman who captured his heart at Hogwarts—the Muggle-born woman. But Lady Lily had been a special case. Despite the enormous scandal such a marriage likely resulted in, Lady Lily came from a wealthy and titled Muggle family. What was more, she redeemed herself and eviscerated any lasting grievances people had towards her marriage when she sacrificed herself for her son, thusly deflecting Voldemort's killing curse. Hermione could never hope to earn that sort of worth in Society's eyes. Harry was clearly deluding himself with some quickly concocted pipedream he hadn't thought over.

He simply hadn't considered the consequences—that was abundantly clear. Someone like him could and should marry _up_ in stature. He could even raise his title, if he were selective. Why would he ever consider marrying _down,_ of all the silly things? "Harry," she shrilled. "It wouldn't be proper."

He was silent for a moment, staring at her solemnly before he spoke. A part of her shriveled under the heat of his gaze. This was the man that defeated Voldemort—the greatest dark wizard of their time—that made Harry the greatest wizard of _their_ time. One did not simply hold eye contact with such a man. "Not… _proper_?" he hedged, the velvety baritone of his voice doing funny things to the pit of her belly. A calculating shrewdness flashed through his eyes as he studied her. She suddenly wished desperately that she could shrink into the tall blades of grass they sat upon and hide from his probing eyes. "I had thought we were of a similar mind when it came to such topics. For fuck sake, we've debated the issue half to death many nights over. Now its _not proper_?"

Hermione winced, his use of profanity not having its usual effect on her. Normally, she could strike up a debate with him and it would be enough of a distraction to keep her mind from wandering. She was in her comfort zone then. The marriage proposal had effectively jarred her. "Harry," her voice sounded like a plea. "That was different. It was philosophical. Only a harmless discussion. This is the _real world_. If you did something like this, people's attitude towards you would change. I couldn't bear it, I really couldn't. However wild our imaginings were on the run—however freethinking—the world isn't ready for that _now._ It would mean social ruin. Think of all the doors that would close to you, the people who would turn their backs on you… just because of your selection in a wife."

He lurched away, peering at her from his new vantage point. Hermione wished he wouldn't look at her in such a fashion. Not only was it inappropriate, but it put her ill at ease. It seemed to her like he was measuring her strengths and weaknesses and finding her lacking. She did not wish for him to discover the truth she'd been harboring since she'd first met Harry Potter, at the ripe age of eleven. Her innocent crush only developing and growing into a full out obsession the older and the more mature they both became.

"Do you… do you really… think _I care_ what people think?" His incredulous expression threw her. "They could all suck Draught of Living Death and die for all I care. Surely, _you_ know that. I thought you were strong."

Hurt flashed across her face. If it was only a matter of strength—a matter of facing down the ton and the nobility of wizarding Britain and turning her nose at them all—that was hardly an issue. No, there was another issue to contend with _entirely_.

"When I think about what they did to you," his face twisted in an angry snarl, "it makes me want to _wretch._ A hundred Galleons—when Ronald got ten times that?—it's insulting! You must know I vouched for you." He closed the distance between them once more and Hermione tried to stay stoic in his passionate grip. "I told them you deserved _so much_ more. Frankly, I'm appalled with them all." He paused for a moment, running his hand through his hair before slanting his gaze at her once more. "Do you labor under the delusion they can stop me?" He scoffed. "I had my lawyer look over the will with a microscope. Nowhere in there does it say I can't wed a Muggle-born. My own father wed a Muggle-born. I'm not a Duke or a Prince. I'm a _mere Lord._ A popular Lord, but a Lord just the same. It's completely legal, I assure you. I can protect you. What's more. I can give you the life I know you want."

His hands curled around the small of her back and he pulled her into his well-defined chest. Her breath halted as the scent of him assaulted her in the most pleasant, but the most torturous of ways. She squeezed her eyes shut, beyond grateful that she needn't keep concealing her feelings from her eyes. He felt solid and secure. Her rock. Her protection.

"I heard Kingsley talking. They mean to marry you off, did you know? Some royal Muggle Viceroy or another. They want to strengthen their ties to British leaders in the Muggle world. Sell you off like bloody cattle." He caressed her neck and shoulders as he spoke. "They mean to blackmail you with promises of securing your parents vouchers into the wizarding world—that's how they plan on getting you. But you don't need them. You can live your life as you do now—I wouldn't stop you—and I _would_ help you get everything you desired without asking anything in return. I know what you want and what you need without you having to tell me. You're my _best friend._ "

 _Oh if only that were true!_ Hermione tentatively reached her hands around his back to embrace him in return, thankful for the security he offered and the closeness she craved, but she needed to think. This was madness! Even allowing herself to touch him like this was _forbidden._ She couldn't agree to it—there was no way to make it work. Harry expected certain things from such a relationship, that was clear. If she accepted, she would be _knowingly_ misleading him in the worst possible way. She'd be a wretched friend.

He expected a marriage that was strictly platonic, with a wife who cared for him as a friend would, and in exchange for her compliance he would provide an unheard of amount of freedom. Her life would be quite liberating with Harry—she was sure—but would she live up to her end of the bargain? Could she forever hide the depth of her feelings for the man?

Gathering up all the courage she could muster, she turned her head up and mumbled into his chest. "Harry, what of heirs? Won't you desire for the Potter name to live on through you?"

He chuckled, the lively sound rumbling through his chest. "Of course I'll _want heirs_." He rubbed soothing circles in her back and she tensed, blushing profusely at the implication of his words. Heirs… with _her_? "You needn't worry. We're friends—we've battled dark wizards together—is that not proof enough we can get through _anything_ together? I'll _take care_ of you. Only when you're ready, of course. But I know how motherly you are—Merlin knows you've mothered Ronald and I since the beginning. Soon enough you'll crave for a child to dote on, and I can give you that."

She would faint.

Surely she would.

Hermione would fall unconscious across the grass and mortify herself in the process. The notion of _him_ … doing _that_ … to _her_? It was unfathomable! Well, not exactly _unfathomable_ per se, for she had in truth imagined it lots of times. It was a relief she had a knack for Occlumency, given the natural Legilimens that he was. One slip in her mind and he'd be disgusted by her fantastical imaginings concerning him. The outrageous part of it all was the notion that she could remain… what was it? _Platonic._ During all of that. She simply _could not_.

For she knew what couples did on their wedding night. She'd witnessed it! As much as she tried not to think of her captivity and wrench it from her mind, she remembered what she saw. She may still have her innocence intact, but visually she was corrupted. She knew how these things _could_ go. And more importantly, she knew how they were _supposed_ to go. She knew what was _proper._ When Harry decided to put his heir in her, he'd likely keep his clothes _on_. He'd go to her under the cover of darkness and lift her nightgown up to her hips. There would be no touching or groping of any kind like she'd inwillingly bore witness to, hating herself and her treacherous mind when the celebrating couple morphed and twisted in her mind so that it was she and Harry in those positions. There would be none of that. Each move would serve a purpose, and that purpose _would not_ be pleasure. But Hermione, who had imagined such things with Harry countless times over to her utter shame, would _still_ likely find pleasure, just from his intimate touch alone. She felt that insistent need tugging on her core even now just picturing it. Imagine the intensity of it actually happening? Imagine his revulsion when he felt her desire for him? How could she possibly agree to this? He expected her to be just like him—indifferent, impartial, _cold_ —but she wasn't. Dear God! She really wasn't.

It would all be a terrible lie—and that would hardly be fair to him.

"Harry," she tried, her voice breathless, "I'm not sure I could… you're like a brother to me." The twisted lie ripped itself from her mouth, but she was grasping for straws at this point and hoped she sounded sincere.

"And you're like the sister I never had," his voice ghosted along her ear delightfully, causing her to shiver with sheer want. "That's why this is the perfect match. We don't wish to see each other unhappy—we genuinely care for each other."

A vision of seeing him and Ronald naked and bathing by the stream popped unbidden inside her head. It had only ever been the three of them, so of course she'd _seen_ them. She'd been far too curious to turn away, not when any passing day could mean her imminent death. What had she to lose? But there'd been a lot to lose. For she had seen _his_ body, painted white in the moonlight and more perfectly sculpted than her vivid imagination could rightfully do justice to. After that, her daydreams had increased in quantity.

Dear God, she was a regular Peeping Tom! It hadn't been intentional—in the strictest sense. The threat of death at every turn influenced her choices dramatically. She'd never intended to become so consumed with lust—for her best friend—of all people. But she inexplicably had, and wasn't that just the rottnest of luck? If she'd led a normal life, she might be very much like her virginal classmates, with innocent minds and pure smiles. But she was far worse, and if Harry ever knew the depth of her depravity, he'd surely commit her to St. Mungos as well as be overwhelmingly disgusted with her. She couldn't bear it!

She adjusted her hat, The ribbon discolored and the side torn, but she couldn't afford a replacement. Just another lapse on her part and more evidence that she didn't deserve him. Her clothing was in tatters, her shoes in shambles, her hair a frizzy mess of impossible curls thanks to the raw lye soap she scrubbed it with. What did she have to offer? She'd only bring him shame and disappointment. She was no raving beauty, not like Lady Pansy or Lady Ginevra. Harry could never find himself attracted to her, as she was to him. And Merlin—but was she ever to him!

It was decided then.

She simply must decline.

As much as it broke her to do so, she couldn't go through with this. She couldn't commit to living a lie day after day, and deceiving the person she cared for most in this life. She was fortunate enough to have Harry's love, and their friendship transcended any bond she'd forged with anyone else. She couldn't bear to be stripped of that, and she would be if she entered into a marriage with him under false pretenses. He would never forgive her!

"Harry, I'm sorry, but I simply can't." She pulled back to look at him, her voice empty and hollow, but her decision made. "You never think things through, and I'm confident you'd come to regret such a decision."

Feeling built of stone, she made to straighten, but to her horror and her utter surprise, he towered over her in a flash and scooped her into his arms before twirling her in a half circle and heading back to the manor.

"What are you doing," she cried in outrage, pounding her fists on his chest. He'd never handled her in such a way—not even when they were children! It occurred to her that in all her nights on the run she'd never been in such a compromising situation. "Let me down this instant, _Harry Potter._ "

"I don't think so." He trudged off in the direction from whence he came.

"Don't you know… we'll be seen!"

He cradled her as if she weighed nothing, balancing her easily against his chest. "Good. I'm going to stroll right up to Duchess Umbridge and confess my sins. I'll tell the sordid bitch that I've made mad love to you, and then…" He peered down at her and she tried to rear away from his gaze after he'd said such sinful things, even if it was in jest. "You'll _have_ to consent to marry me." He flashed her a brilliant smile and she suddenly became grateful he was carrying her because otherwise she'd surely faint. "Hermione, you're _my girl._ You can't say no to me."

She bit her tongue so hard, she tasted blood. It was the only option lest a moan wrench itself from her throat. The idea of him… making _love_ … to her? It turned her insides into molten lava. It didn't help that he was carrying her so close to his chest. She was weak at the knees, and likely if he set her down, she'd lose her balance instantly. She pressed her eyes shut, torn between abject horror and heated hunger. Harry… moving between her legs… even in the most clinical of ways spurred on her desire. There was no way she'd be able to conceal it from him. And then he would discover her secret! He would find that she was just as wanton… as needing… as the women he discarded like trick wands. She was no different! The respect he had for her would vanish like a Patronus galloping off into the night! He would treat her just as he did every other girl, except he would find her extra repulsive, because she _wasn't even_ attractive. Her heart sank in her chest.

"You can't be serious!"

"I am."

"You're mad."

"Perhaps."

She invoked the name of Merlin and the Muggle God for good measure. Whatever would she do? The memory of cold nights spent alone with him as a teenager when a frustrated Ronald left their trio was enough to make her blood run hot. They had slept in close quarters. They would never speak of it. He never compromised her, but they had shared a tent which others would surely find scandalous if the secret got out. She slept peacefully, despite the presence of pieces of dark souls around her neck. All she required was his nearness. Now he proposed to make such an arrangement _permanent_? But she would hardly be able to resist him! The older she grew, the stronger her cravings became. Sweet Circe—the man was her one and only weakness. She wasn't a Saint! But how could she dissuade him when he threatened her so?

"Come on, Princess," the old endearment slipped around her like a vice, holding her prisoner and fueling her wicked thoughts. "You can't deny me—you've never been able to before." She melted in his arms. "You'll do this for me, won't you?" Did he know what he was asking? It was too much! It would surely break her to play such a dangerous game… to play with her heart. "I promise I'll make it worth your while."

 _Harry,_ she screamed in her mind. _I'm desperately in love with you. So don't you see? I could never marry you. Not when you don't love me in return. Not when you expect indifference. I could never give you that… I'll only ever be… always… hot for you. You're my one and only weakness._

"Are you going to force me to make a scene, or will you be agreeable?" He flashed her another smile even as he set her on her feet and she teetered precariously, but he didn't let her go. "Stop denying us something we both want. I won't stand by while a man rules over you—I'd _Avada_ him first. Do you want me to go to Azkaban?" He arched his brow mischievously in a shameless attempt to manipulate her. "Let us do this… _together_ … like we were meant to."

For the briefest of seconds, she lost the struggle and dropped the guard of her eyes, allowing him to see all that lurked in her deep brown depths. But his smile never faltered, and she regained control, the moment lost. If he noticed her lapse in control he didn't react to it, but she wagered he didn't notice at all in typical Harry-fashion. As sharp as he was at reading her, he never seemed to catch her slips when it concerned her feelings _for him_.

He wanted this. He pushed for it. She would worry herself to death over how she would remain stoic in their marriage bed, but perhaps such concerns were better than dealing with Harry's wrath thanks to her refusal during the here and _now._ She didn't need to worry about how she would manage it… she could think about that _then_. If he really wanted to enter the binds of marriage with her, she supposed she should thank the heavens that she would no longer need to worry about some woman coming to steal her friend from her. They would be together always, as long as he wanted her, and Hermione could deal with any issues that came with it. It was a small price to pay.

"There's no need, Harry." She placed a calming hand on his arm and steadied her balance. "If you really want for us to marry, I won't begrudge you your wish."

A pleased smile spread across his face and it was so contagious, she couldn't help but to return it. Despite her abundant misgivings, this was Harry and he was offering the one and only thing she ever truly cared about—himself—to her. How could she ever find herself unhappy in such a state? Uncomfortable? Yes, dooming herself to a life of deceit? Unavoidable. But unhappy that Harry would choose her over all other witches for whatever insane reason he'd managed to conjure? No. It didn't matter. He would be hers, and she would be his bride. For that she could learn to abide.

**~oOo*oOo~**

 


	2. Announcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Thanks so much for your notes and comments last chapter! I'm glad to see some people seem to be liking where this story is heading. I definitely intend on having fun with it. Enjoy Xx_

**~oOo*oOo~**

 

Hermione sat in a state of paralyzed shock.

 

A magical harp played lulling music in the background. Elves were conducting a beautiful tea service. The scent of Lady Luna’s strong potpourri filled the air.

 

But Hermione was only dimly aware of all of that.

 

Harry had just announced to the entire table—their shared _school acquaintances_ —of their pending nuptials.

 

The room had descended into a state of shocked silence, and Hermione had lost her breath as all eyes turned uncertainty—curiously—and even accusatory—to her. It was too much attention all at once, and she was forced to take a brief moment to collect her thoughts. She ducked her head and stared into her lap. She was a Gryffindor through and through, but she wasn’t prepared for this—hadn’t considered that Harry, true to his brash ways, would simply clear his throat and announce such a thing as if there was nothing scandalous about it.

 

It had been a mistake to look away from their gazes.

 

Harry had caught the slip, and now more prominent on the forefront of her mind was Harry’s hand resting discreetly under the table and over her knee. Her once referred to _brilliant mind_ seemed to wipe itself essentially clean. For the first time in twenty-four hours, she couldn’t even spare her _impending nuptials_ a thought _._ No, there were much more pressing matters to contend with.

 

He probably meant for the gesture to be comforting, but it was anything but. He couldn’t know about the maelstrom of panic churning inside her chest. His touch was positively scorching, and she at once regretted the high-neck dress she’d selected as it caused her to shift uncomfortably thanks to the heating of her blood. Sadly, it was one of the better ones she owned—at least there weren’t any holes to speak of, and it was only lightly worn.

 

A brief flicker of embarrassment passed through her at the reminder of just _how lacking_ a match she was for Harry. How could she look them all straight in the eye when she felt just as thrown by the whole turn of events? It would take a lot to explain the reasoning behind it. Hermione didn’t even fully understand herself how it happened.

 

She had every intention of coming clean to Harry when he arrived to pick her up in his carriage. She’d lay awake much of the night prior just to go over what she might say. Telling him her feelings was the least she could do, she reasoned. Yet when he arrived at her shabby London flat she rented from an all girls boarding school in Diagon Alley, her words had fled her. He’d flashed her that disarming smile and his eyes held nothing but fondness in them directed at her. The entire carriage ride, she’d tried to work up the courage—but she inevitably chickened out. They were to marry soon, and Hermione couldn’t even do him the courtesy of letting him know that her feelings for him _were not_ strictly platonic as he’d assumed.

 

Not by any means.

 

Harry lightly squeezed her knee and her heart seized in her chest. Cheeks positively flamed crimson, she reluctantly shot him a glance only to see him flash her another dazzling smile that caused her breathing to hasten.

 

“That’s…” Lady Pansy started uncertainly, “sudden.”

 

“Quite,” came Ronald’s short reply.

 

For the first time, Hermione became aware of the way the third part of the infamous _Trio_ stared at them, feeling the heat of his scrutiny.

 

Hermione wanted badly to melt into the floor and seep between the cracks of the polished wood where she could be safely hidden.

 

Lord Neville cleared his throat awkwardly. “Where did,” he faltered and glanced at Lady Luna who smiled encouragingly at him, “ _how did_ this come about?”

 

Ronald leaned forward as if riveted.

 

“Yes, it’s a bit unexpected,” Lady Pansy said diplomatically.

 

 _Fair point_ , Hermione thought. She expected her former school nemesis to pay her an icy reception upon hearing the news, what with her family campaigning so hard for a good match, but Lady Pansy seemed to take the news in stride.

 

“Not really.” Lady Luna’s whimsical lilt gave Hermione a strange sense of comfort which only increased as the witch expressed her thoughts further. “I’m not at all surprised. The two of you have always been close—it only stands to reason your relationship should blossom into something more.”

 

Harry gave her an indulgent grin, before turning to the rest of the table. “It just makes sense.”

 

Hermione looked up from below her lashes, curious to see how Harry would navigate such a slippery slope.

 

“Miss Granger and I have known each other since we were children. She’s helped me get out of every jam… went with me on every adventure,” he squeezed her knee again and she quickly pressed her eyes closed against the resultant tingling sensation, “and she’s always been there for me… more than anyone else.”

 

“More than I have?” interjected Ronald, blue eyes blazing.

 

“I’m sorry, _Ronald_ ,” Harry quipped, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Would you rather I would have extended my offer of marriage to you?”

 

Tentative snickers broke the thick tension, bellied with Lord Neville’s riotous laughter. Ronald reddened all the way to the tips of his ears, averting his eyes.

 

“I think it’s _romantic_ ,” Lady Luna sighed. “Congratulations to you both.” She reached across Lord Neville and squeezed Hermione’s hand. “I always sensed something between you two… knew there were feelings there.”

 

Hermione paled, shooting Harry a worried look and finding him eyeing her curiously. She forced herself to laugh at Lady Luna’s comment, the sound grating her throat, all the while marveling at the Ravenclaw’s uncanny perception. Perhaps Hermione wasn’t as good at concealing her secret desires as she thought.

 

“Yes, well that’s all good and well,” Ronald continued, having seemed to recover from his minor embarrassment. “But what of my sister, hm? Have you considered her in all of this?” His heated gaze skewered Hermione. “Have both of you?”

 

Hermione was stunned Ronald would be so bold as to question Harry’s honor in such a public fashion. Did he realize his brash words were laced with insinuation? He acted as if Harry had compromised his sister, when in truth Harry had always been a gentlemen to Hermione’s knowledge. Even at the Burrow when Miss Weasley had vied for his attention, he’d always been kind, but never misleading. What was more, Hermione knew the Weasleys were seriously considering a proposal from the Zabini family. Still, she brought her eyes down to her tea saucer, unable to look Ronald in the face as he skewered Harry with a gaze rife with allegation.

 

Harry brought his hand to the table sharply. “What of it, Ronald?” There was a challenge evident in his eyes as emerald green met sapphire blue. “Do you take me for a… _Pureblood Slytherin or something_? Think I’ve been promised off in a marriage contract since the day I was born?” He turned to face Lady Pansy, his face molding into a sheepish expression. “No offense, Lady Pansy.”

 

“None taken,” she assured him with a quirk of her lips.

 

“There was no betrothal. I’m prepared to duel anyone who sees fit to question my honor.”

 

Ronald turned impossibly redder, his fists clenching by his sides, but he ultimately averted his eyes. Hermione’s hand hovered in the air as she gathered courage to offer some lame attempt at comfort, but Harry’s possessive arm draping around her chair caused her arm to drop back to her lap with a soft thud. She had no time to rejoice or mourn the loss of his hand on her knee as she was now faced with the overwhelming presence of his hand rubbing her shoulder. She could scarcely find her breath.

 

“Now, now boys,” Lady Pansy interjected smoothly, “no need to ruin a perfectly good tea session with your abhorrent manners. Especially when the lovely Longbottoms have so graciously invited us to their estate.” She turned to Hermione, gracing her with a comforting smile. “When is the wedding, dear?”

 

“Well—.”

 

Harry interrupted her once more. “At the end of next week,” he answered definitively. “I don’t wish to waste any time.”

 

Hermione winced against the resultant gasps of surprise, hoping they did not wrongfully assume she’d been compromised and that such was the reason for her hasty nuptials. The thought alone made her blush anew.

 

“So soon?” Lord Neville nearly squeaked.

 

Lady Luna chuckled, turning to cup his cheek. “They’re _eager_ to be married.” She arched her brow suggestively. “ _You_ understand.”

 

Lord Neville’s cheeks turned pink.

 

She turned to face the new couple. “I’m sure you’re excited for your wedding and what’s to come after.”

 

Lady Pansy let out a sharp intake of breath, and though Lady Luna held higher stature than all of their school friends what with being the first to marry and no longer requiring a chaperone to host parties, Lady Pansy still proceeded to scold her as if she were the elder in the situation.

 

While the girls bickered, Harry took the opportunity to lean down and whisper in Hermione’s ear. “Don’t worry.” He brushed a strand of hair that had escaped her updo back behind her ear. “I have everything sorted.”

 

She felt like her cheeks were on fire and couldn’t look at him if she tried. The urge to hide behind her hands was all-consuming. _Everything sorted… but what did he mean,_ she couldn’t help but wonder. The wedding or what was to come _after._ Hermione already knew what was proper—what to expect. If Harry was referring to _their wedding night_ , what was there to plan for? She took a calming breath. It was probably something completely rational, maybe a suggestion that they not consummate their marriage at all—at least not now. There was no urgency, and he had suggested they could wait until she was ready. She needn’t worry, but she couldn’t help feeling a bit unsettled by the comment, spurred on by Lady Luna’s.

 

Lady Luna’s intentions were good, but for once her friend’s intuition was wrong. Well-meaning, but very _wrong_. What Lady Luna alluded to _was not_ the reason for she and Harry’s hasty marriage date whatsoever. The wizard simply didn’t want his Muggle relatives getting a hold of his estate. He’d do anything to avoid that from happening—and really—so would she. Whatever else moved her, she also had no care to see the Dursleys get an ounce of anything from Harry—abusive Muggles that they were. Hermione herself served merely as a convenient solution to a potentially enormous problem. Of course Harry should wish to tie himself to his friend—his best friend—rather than some Galleon-hunting-witch bent on claiming _The-Boy-Who-Lived_ , now _The-Wizard-Who-Defeated-You-Know-Who_. There was nothing romantic about his motives.

 

Lord Neville cast Harry a knowing look, and much to her shock—Harry joined his laughter—as if any part of Lady Luna’s ridiculous statement was remotely true. She thought she might explode from the embarrassment mixed with the shock of it all.

 

“Well,” Lady Pansy ventured tentatively, “moving on—,” here she speared Harry with a disapproving glance, “how in Merlin’s name will _we_ put a wedding together in less than two weeks?”

 

Lady Luna nodded. “It will be a challenge to see that everyone can make the invite with such short notice.”

 

Harry snorted in a most-ungentlemanly fashion. “Hermione and I _don’t care_ about that.” He smirked at her, as if she were his partner in crime. She supposed she was, to a degree. “We only wish to wed. To Hell with the ton and their blasted expectations. They can come or they can’t, makes no spot of difference to us.”

 

Hermione secretly preened at the way in which Harry had referred to them as _us,_ belligerently stating they didn’t care about the ton. She was also relieved that their wedding may end up being a _small affai_ r. Thank God for small mercies.

 

Lady Pansy made a noise of disapproval, but much to Hermione’s surprise, she could detect no longing from the Slytherin witch towards Hermione’s own fiancé. She felt a blast of camaraderie spark between them thanks to the realization Lady Pansy was wholly on _her_ side—a witch’s witch—as the saying went.

 

“Miss Granger,” Lady Pansy bid her warmly, her frigid Slytherin mask having seemed to evaporate, “do allow me the privilege of helping you with these,” her lip curled in distaste and Hermione was reminded of the old Pansy from her school days, “hastily planned nuptials.” She shot Harry another withering stare. “Lady Luna and I will be glad to offer our assistance.”

 

“Yes,” Lady Luna lurched forward enthusiastically, “I’m quite good at planning parties.”

 

Lord Neville and Lady Pansy exchanged a worried glance, and Hermione might have thought the situation comical if it weren’t so distressing. Everyone knew Lady Luna’s tastes were somewhat… whimsical. Still, Hermione didn’t mind. She was thankful for the offer and happened to appreciate Luna’s eye for the rarer things. Her only cause for concern was being the center of all this attention.

 

“Where were you thinking?” She paused and studied Hermione. “For a venue?” Lady Luna prodded.

 

“Oh, I—,” she shot Harry a beseeching look, hoping he would save the day with another rapid answer as he’d been doing thus far. His eyes glinted in amusement, his only response a very debonair shrug. So it would be left to her to decide, then. Hermione swallowed. She found it hard to think with his touch on her shoulder burning her. “Well… something outdoors would be nice.”

 

Harry inclined his head in approval.

 

Lady Luna clapped her hands with enthusiasm. “Lovely!”

 

“But the first thing we need to do,” Lady Pansy informed them bossily, “is take our Dearest Miss Granger to the salon. You’ll need a gown, and…” Her eyes scanned Hermione, seeming to assess her with a shrewdness that caused Hermione to shift uncomfortably, “other things.”

 

Hermione smiled her gratefulness. “Thank you so much, Lady Pansy. I must admit, I’m lost when it comes to things of a fashionable nature.”

 

Lady Pansy’s pursed lips seemed to suggest she silently agreed with her.

 

Harry spread his arms, his expression content. “I knew you ladies would come to the aid of my betrothed.”

 

Hermione blushed furiously at his referral to her as his _betrothed_.

 

“Whatever Hermione needs—add it to the Potter account.” His smile widened. “I want to indulge my Bride.”

 

“You must allow us to make decisions on her behalf,” Lady Pansy said in a tone awfully close to urgent before straightening and seeming to remember herself. “You know how Miss Granger can be… rather _more studious_ and less likely to trouble herself with societal obligations expected of witches.”

 

 _Phrased like a true Slytherin,_ Hermione couldn’t help but think. She knew her fashion sense had just underwent a subtle attack. She partially wished to inform the witch that it wasn’t so much her lack of fashion-sense, but her lack of Galleons that produced the outfits she showed up with.

 

Harry chuckled, and Hermione marveled at how he could feel so _easy_ in a situation like the one they currently found themselves. She supposed she ought to be grateful that his words were proving true—he didn’t seem to care at all what others thought of his decision as he’d promised her. At least for now.

 

“That may be best,” he indulged, winking at Lady Pansy, “I know Hermione has always busied herself with academic pursuits.” He turned to her, his lopsided grin teasing. “Do amuse Lady Pansy for an afternoon, darling.”

 

Ronald scoffed loudly.

 

Harry pointedly ignored him.

 

“Wonderful,” Lady Pansy exclaimed, clapping her hands over her chest.

 

Hermione shifted uncomfortably—her previous appreciation towards Lady Pansy transitioning into wariness. Being controlled by the former Slytherin presented with a lot of ways it could go wrong. Lady Pansy was outlandish and fashion-forward, where Hermione was more comfortable blending in and not making any sort of statement. She stayed quiet, Ronald’s menacing stare making her uneasy.

 

The hand on her shoulder wandered over the knot between her neck and shoulder, a result of her tossing and turning the night prior, and he stopped to rub it. Her eyes fluttered shut as Harry’s hand went to work. Merlin—but the man had to be doing magic. His touch felt _so good_ —better than anything she’d ever felt before—she didn’t want it to stop. It sent tingling sensations down her spine and further down to rest between her legs. She shifted uncomfortably and wrenched her eyes open—determined to concentrate lest she prove herself an utter fool in polite company.

 

Harry flashed his teeth, looking suddenly predatory. “Now that we’re all coupled up,” his eyes scanned the five witches and wizards crowding the table, “we may as well make a habit of these meetings.”

 

“Oi!” Ronald scoffed loudly. “I’m not coupled up.” He sneered his disgust before turning towards Lady Pansy. “Neither is Lady Pansy, here.”

 

Harry pressed his lips closed, determined not to laugh, but once a few snickers escaped, the rest of the table followed. Soon everyone was laughing, including Lady Pansy.

 

Ronald looked thoroughly put out.

 

“Mr Weasley,” Lady Luna favored him with a grin. “You needn’t worry. Lord Potter is only jesting.” She flashed Lady Pansy a shrewd once over. “Though he may be on to _something_.”

 

Their laughter increased in volume, and Hermione could almost forget the startling predicament she found herself in. She could almost deny the discomfort… the truth… that very soon she would need to face the ton and all of Harry’s rabid fans, proclaiming herself as _his Intended_ , despite how preposterous such an idea sounded even to her.

 

“Whatever,” Ronald sputtered, eyes enraged. “Laugh all you want. Entertain yourself with fanciful notions of _love._ Meanwhile the Lestrange Syndicate strikes again, content to take advantage of your willful distraction.”

 

Hermione’s curiosity was piqued.

 

Harry’s carefree mood instantly vanished, warm green eyes dimming and abruptly chilled . “Ronald—not in front of the ladies.”

 

A mutinous feeling seared through Hermione, hating the fact that she was relegated to merely _just a woman_ , and unable to probe further. There was a time when Harry might have clued her in immediately, even sought her advice. Maybe he still would—when they were alone. She hoped so.

 

“Not to worry, love.” Lord Neville patted Lady Luna’s arms. “They’ve fled across the Mediterranean. No threat to us here.”

 

Ronald scoffed loudly. “They’ve left _for now_. Took a great many relics from the Ministry with them.”

 

Harry’s fingers tightened around the fragile of porcelain of his teacup to the point that Hermione worried it might break. Instead of breaking, he sat it down gently, spearing Ronald with a menacing look. For the first time, Hermione forgot about her nuptials, her senses telling her that the exchange between the wizards was important. A sense of injustice flared hotly. She didn’t need to be _protected._ She would simply have to get Harry to tell her what was going on at the first opportunity.

 

As if she’d called him by name, he glanced her way, green eyes trapping her in his captivating gaze.

 

That is… if she could look him in the eye without sputtering like a besotted school girl.

 

**~oOo*oOo~**

 

The next day, Hermione found herself swept up in the world of witches.

 

It was one she’d scarcely had cause to delve into before. Her status as a low-born witch with hardly any Galleons to boast of, her focus on her studies, and the fact that she was actively engaged in a war left no room for frivolous indulgences.

 

But now it would seem she was getting a crash course.

 

Hermione had spent the morning being poked and prodded as she got her measurements taken by Madam Lafleur. The intimidating and well sought after seamstress spent their initial meeting pursing her lips, brow furrowed, and shaking her head at Hermione’s current choice in gown. It could hardly be called a gown, really. She’d already wasted her best dress at Lady Luna’s tea party. For goodness sake—she wasn’t made of dresses!

 

Madam Lafleur had lamented over Hermione’s lack of wardrobe and exclaimed that she would need to replace _it all_. The witch had expressed concern over having to make a wedding gown in only a week’s time. Hermione wanted to insist that surely not all her gowns needed to replaced and doing so was utterly frivolous. Surely she had practical robes and dresses that were acceptable. But the fact remained—she was marrying an exceptionally wealthy man and she would have to endure it whether she liked it or not.

 

When she caught a glimpse of the bill, she nearly had a heart attack. She didn’t even have half that much hidden in the magically concealed tin on top of her kitchen cabinet. It was more than her life savings and the remainder of her Ministry allotted purse. She couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Harry would be content to pay such a fee, and so she’d attempted to cover at least part of it, but Lady Pansy stopped her.

 

“Oh no you don’t!” Lady Pansy had snatched the tin away and thrust it back on the counter. “Lord Harry was very clear that we put all purchases on the Potter account.”

 

“But—.” Hermione tried to argue with her, suddenly feeling very crowded in her cramped flat with bolts of material, ribbons, and magical measurement tape flitting around the one-room flat. She was embarrassed in front of these women who were likely used to opulence and luxury. Her home was comparatively a dump, no matter how proud she’d been upon first securing residence at the boarding house.

 

Lady Luna had done Hermione the disservice of jumping to Lady Pansy’s defense. “He was very explicit in his instructions, I’m afraid.”

 

Hermione had relented, but it didn’t make her worry any less. Perhaps the cost of what Harry had so generously and so spontaneously offered would come as a surprise to him. He’d likely become so angry, he’d be inclined to call off the wedding altogether, despite his determination to marry her. She told herself it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he did—that he would actually save her heartache in the end—but she couldn’t help but feel a tendril of fear at the notion.

 

Really, Hermione had been considering taking out a loan at Gringotts to pay her flat and fill her cupboards with food. She hadn’t anticipated getting a job after the war and after Hogwarts would be so difficult. She knew other Muggle-borns had problems attaining the type of positions she was after—opting instead for service work—but she’d believed her NEWT scores and the recognition she’d begrudgingly received from the Minister would be enough to bridge _some_ gaps. She was determined not to settle. Her quest to attain suitable work had been meant with more discrimination than she’d hoped to receive, but she hadn’t given up. Harry had always told her she was too competent a witch to lower herself to menial work as many Muggle-born witches traditionally did after Hogwarts. Unless the woman elected to have the Ministry match them with someone suitable and hopefully titled in the Muggle world. Harry’s proposal had come at the perfect time, and unintentionally solved a lot of problems she would face in the coming months, but that didn’t mean she wanted to take advantage of his kindness and splurge so recklessly.

 

There was no way she could afford such a costly indulgence, especially given the uncertainty she felt in regards to her future. Even so, feeling pressured by the three witches in front of her she had no choice but to relent. Harry had given them permission to make decisions for her, hadn’t he? Surely if he were to be surprised and possibly angry, it wouldn’t be directed at _her_.

 

Still, as the day wore on and the bills stacked up, she couldn’t help feeling heart palpitations when she thought about the colossal cost of it all.

 

Currently, Hermione found herself in a large salon chair with an abhorrent amount of some potion she’d never heard of soaking her hair. There was a witch to her left busy buffing her nails while another witch levitated a basin of water to rinse the tonic.

 

She’d had it on her head for nearly two hours.

 

The women had moaned over Hermione’s _neglected curls_ and explained that it would take several treatments to rectify. Hermione had suppressed an eye roll, but could do nothing but sit still while she mentally calculated the cost of all the extravagance.

 

Lady Pansy could be found sitting on one of the lavish sofas, leafing through the newest edition of _Witch Weekly_ and commenting from time to time on some new hairstyle or intricate décolletage she saw on a gown. For her part, she looked unconcerned over prices. Hermione tried to find that comforting, but it was a hard feat given how prone to worrying she was. Lady Luna was busy scrawling on her parchment, often asking Hermione for her thoughts on an idea she had for the wedding. It wasn’t long before Lady Luna had roughly scratched out the preliminary wedding plans and started placing orders by Owl.

 

Hermione never would have been able to put a wedding together so quickly on her own. Since Godric’s Hollow was in no livable state, Lady Pansy had found and secured a venue at Malfoy Manor in the lush gardens she’d heard so much about. Rather than being put out by the last minute and arguably invasive request, Viscount Malfoy and his mother seemed all too happy to offer the location last minute. Lady Narcissa had assured Lady Pansy via Owl that she’d start working on the decorations straight away, thanking Lady Pansy for extending them the offer. Hermione guessed that Malfoy and his mother saw this as an opportunity to further repair their post-war reputations. The youngest Malfoy had actually come through for the Order not once but twice—refusing to oust them to Lady Lestrange and then again by throwing Harry his wand in the Final Battle. Even so, the Malfoy family still endured a chilly reception from the ton. Malfoy’s own father had died in the war, leaving the estate and title of Viscount to him, but they were still tainted by their prior affiliations.

 

Hermione didn’t care, and doubted Harry would. She knew how grateful Harry was for the Malfoy’s help, and she knew how generous her future husband could be when it came to helping his friends. A decision to host the event there would make a bold statement, and one that needed to be made, in Hermione’s opinion. She knew Harry would be happy to help the Malfoys in their quest to re-enter Society.

 

One of the witches scrubbed her hair free of the potion and performed a drying spell. The curls fell loosely down her chest and felt light against her skin. The beautician then proceeded to pin her newly repaired curls in an elaborate updo _befitting to a lady_ of her stature.

 

“Oh!” Lady Pansy clapped her hands over her chest. “You look lovely—positively radiant,” she gushed. Her eyes sparkled. She scanned the products on the table. “Miss Granger will take some of these home with her. Oh, and would you mind showing her how to perform some simple cosmetic charms? The witch is terrifying with a wand, but can’t perform a blushing charm to save her life. She’ll need that tube and that one there… oh and this cream.” She turned to face Hermione. “At least until you get your own maid. I’m sure Potter Manor will have plenty, and an elf too. You’ll not lack help, I assure you. But until then, you’ll have to learn a few things on your own.”

 

Hermione nodded, feeling overwhelmed, but followed the spell patterns presented to her studiously and memorized them all. She was happy to occupy her mind with something slightly academic. She tried not to think about how she would soon become the Lady of Potter Manor and just whose shoes she’d be filling much sooner than she was prepared to. The prior Lady Potter had been a beacon of the community and was regarded in high esteem for the sacrifice she made. No one ever seemed to talk about how she’d been Muggle-born.

 

“The wedding is going to be beautiful,” Lady Luna said, interrupting Hermione from her private musings. “I’ll ask the faeries to light the trees and I’ll charm an arch out of flowers and ivy. Lady Narcissa’s elves will prepare the best banquet and you’ll adore it—I promise.”

 

Hermione swallowed against a lump in her throat. “It will be a small affair,” she ventured tentatively, “won’t it?”

 

“Mhm,” Lady Pansy nodded noncommittally. “It’s summer and there are so many families on holiday. I doubt everyone invited will be able to make it.”

 

Hermione took some comfort in this. She thought about the girls and all they were doing for her and Harry. Her lips turned in a smile. She might not have ever wanted an extravagant wedding for herself, but Harry deserved it.

 

“Thank you.” Hermione’s eyes gleamed with appreciation. “Thank you both for… _everything_. I could never express my thanks enough. If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”

 

Lady Luna came up and placed her hand on Hermione’s. “Just your friendship is enough.”

 

Lady Pansy smirked. “Well now that you offer…” her smile turned downright wicked, “any tips on how to wrangle a proposal out of your best friend, hm? I can’t get that hard-headed ginger to even invite me for a carriage ride, let alone get an invite to the Burrow.”

 

Hermione smiled widely and forgot about her own worries completely in favor of concentrating everything on this prospect. Ronald probably thought she wasn’t interested and wouldn’t even dream of broaching the subject unless prompted. Lady Pansy complemented Ronald nicely, and if there was any witch to get the wizard in check, Hermione imagined it was her. “You’ll have to take the lead, I’m afraid.”

 

Lady Luna nodded enthusiastically. “He doesn’t take hints very well.”

 

“No,” Hermione agreed. “He’s sort of shy. But I know he’s always fancied you.”

 

“Really?” Lady Pansy preened.

 

“Oh yes.” Hermione leaned forward in her chair. “Couldn’t tear his eyes away at the Yule Ball. If he even gets an inkling you’re interested, he’d soar to the moon. But—” she cast a glance to her left to be sure the other salon patrons weren’t close enough to listen. “The best way to get him to start courting you would be to discreetly make your intentions known to Mrs Weasley. If she’s aware you’re interested, she’ll light a fire under him. He’ll be over in a moment with his best robes on and flowers in his hands.”

 

She’d always guessed there was a spark there between the two, despite their outspoken _hatred_ for each other spurred on by house rivalries. Their stares were too intense… too lingering… to not be something more. In addition to that, Lady Pansy’s father was in Azkaban. She and her mother retained their rather large estate and their funds were released from Gringotts after the war, but similarly to the Malfoys—their reputation was damaged. The Weasleys, on the other hand, had the benefit of supporting the right side of the war. They were heralded as heroes, but they weren’t very wealthy or titled. A match between the two houses would be beneficial in more ways than one. Hermione fully supported it.

 

“I’ll just have to let the Weasley matriarch catch me looking at her son, then, I suppose,” Lady Pansy reasoned, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. “At the wedding. My mother always told me it’s the mother you need to get on your side.”

 

The girls shared a laugh. Champagne with berries on the bottom and cheese with crackers were served. Hermione spent the remainder of her time at the salon enjoying the company of the ladies. She didn’t entertain her worries again until well after she’d returned to the boarding house.

 

**~oOo*oOo~**

 

Gingerly packing her meager belongings she’d thus far managed to procure, she once again reflected on her arrangement with Harry and her upcoming nuptials. It made her feel cheap to accept such lavish gifts from her betrothed—she felt like she was using him. A savior as ever, Harry had marched in at the perfect time to save the day and wipe away her problems. The money from her purse was nearly gone and her savings was rapidly depleting. The urgency to find a job or even settle for perhaps a job at the local cafe was obsolete now. She could take as long as she needed and be as selective as she pleased.

 

Money wouldn’t be an issue.

 

She sighed and stared fondly at the flat—the first place she’d paid for with her own money. There’d been no question of rejoining her parents in the Muggle world after the war—she couldn’t live without the privilege of using magic. She’d quickly found herself in the slippery role of being an unchaperoned young female, but she’d embraced it. She missed her parents desperately, but she cherished her freedom.

 

“What are you going to do with all the furniture?”

 

She jolted in surprise before her eyes snapped to Ronald standing in the doorway and waiting patiently for her to join him for tea in the boarding house sitting room.  She’d been so deep in thought, she’d nearly forgot his presence altogether. She wished she could banish him there altogether. It was scandalous enough that he should linger in the doorway.

 

“Nothing. It belongs to the boarding house. Just give me a few moments, Ronald. I’m almost through with this trunk.”

 

She wrapped her potions lovingly in paper before placing them in a Space-Increasing trunk. She didn’t have much to take with her, but there were a few things she’d collected on the way she wouldn’t dream of parting with. Her old school texts, for example. They were read and worn and dog-eared, but they were hers. She supposed she could simply donate the clothes to the matron of her flat.

 

“I just never expected him to do something _so rash_.” Ron stared off into space, a befuddled expression on his face.

 

Hermione frowned. “Who?”

 

“Harry, of course,” he burst, slanting his gaze to her. “I mean…” His eyes raked her from head to toe, “what _does_ he see in you?”

 

Hermione slapped the book she was holding shut with a resounding clap. She placed it in her trunk. “Thanks, Ronald.”

 

Her face twisted bitterly. As if she needed a reminder. She was abundantly aware of her shortcomings.

 

Unbidden, her mind drew to their days on the run. They’d needed her, despite the fact that she was Lowborn and Muggle-born. They recognized her talent and skill with a wand. They recognized her thirst for knowledge and knack for solving problems. Even though it was a social faux pas to sully yourself in the company of Muggle-borns, they did anyway because they noticed her talent and courage. Well, she supposed Harry recognized all those things. Ronald had always been a prat to her, but not in the same, sinister way Malfoy had. Though she supposed, of everyone, Malfoy’ attitude had taken the biggest shift. After the war, he’d written her a beautiful apology expressing his sorrow for his actions and hurtful words, and his wishes that he could have done more. No one else had spared her the time, and she couldn’t even see that it served him any purpose to do so. She’d assured him that he’d done fantastic, and admitted that they might not have succeeded without his help. Ronald had been abusive as many of the Purebloods had, but his quips were mostly endearing at least. Through it all, they’d become friends, and she didn’t have issues with any of the Gryffindors so long as she’d remembered to stay in her place.

 

She certainly wasn’t staying in her place _now_.

 

No wonder Ronald was so short with her. The war had ensured Muggle-borns _wouldn’t become slaves_ , but it didn’t make them first-class citizens. The most a Muggle-born witch could hope to aspire to was to the status of a Mistress, maybe, or perhaps a job in the Ministry if they presented with a tremendous amount of skill. Marriage between the two was quite rare and by some families—forbidden. She may have helped ensure liberation of her kind, but she was still lower class. As a woman with no family to protect her, she had sometimes been the victim of lewd overtures from men whilst strolling in Diagon Alley. It was a painful reminder of just what value she had in Society, though she didn’t understand why she expected anything less.

 

“I’m sorry.” Ronald held up his hands in surrender, his ears turning pink. “I didn’t mean it _like that_.”

 

“How did you mean it, then?”

 

Ronald swallowed. “I just.. I mean… _you know_ …” he trailed off uncertainly, looking at her for help the way he did when there was a difficult problem scrawled across the blackboard in Arithmancy class.

 

Hermione’s features softened. “Don’t worry about it. I know you don’t _mean_ to offend me. It just comes naturally, I suppose.” She ran her fingers through her hair, and tugged out the loose pins that were barely holding her curls up any longer. “Believe me, I thought Harry was barmy too, but he had his reasons for asking me and he was quite insistent.” She rubbed her temples. “And with both of us having no families to weigh on the decision it was easy to come to an agreement. It really is such a relief to know the person you’ll be marrying and know you get along with them.”

 

She drew her gaze back to him and was thrown to find him staring, jaw slack. He didn’t appear to have heard a word she just said.

 

Her temper flared. “Ronald?”

 

“Did you do something different to your hair?”

 

Her brows rose.

 

“Er… I suppose. Lady Pansy helped me, actually.” Blushing and wishing to deflect the attention from herself, she plunged on. “She’s such a lovely girl. Probably won’t stay unattached for long.” She sighed wistfully.

 

Ronald furrowed his brows and the dazed expression cleared from his face. “No, I don’t suppose she will.”

 

Hermione smiled, devising how she could further plant the seed. Ronald was definitely interested—she was sure. She conversed with her friend and fellow war hero amicably the rest of the hour while she packed, subtly singing of Lady Pansy’s favorable attributes when she could slip them in surreptitiously.

 

Her mind was still elsewhere, though.

  
In a few days she would become Mrs Potter—no— _Lady Potter._ Titled. Married to her best friend and incidentally—the object of her obsessive fantasies.

  
It was both wonderful and terrible at the same time.

 

**~oOo*oOo~**

 


	3. Wedded Bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Finally I bring you the next chapter. I'm steadily working on chapter 4, because I really, really feel like people are gonna wanna read ch4 *winks* Hopefully I'll have it up to you soon. I tried my best to edit this chapter, but I'm sure it's going to be fraught with errors. My husband does always tell me he doesn't know how I passed English class *eye roll* If anyone feels like volunteering their beta services for this or WC, shoot me a pm! Hopefully I did the Regency era justice. I sure did try Xx**
> 
> **This chapter is dedicated to all of you guys who keep sending me reviews/comments on FF/AO3 wondering where the update is. THANK YOU! You woke up my muse. I so badly wanted to get this out for you guys. I may have rushed it a bit, though, so be warned.**

****

**~oOo*oOo~**

It was the day of the wedding and Hermione could scarcely get a handle on her nerves.

One glance in the full-length mirror, and she could barely recognize the face of the woman who stared back at her. Though simplistic, her gown was cut in French lace that added a touch of elegance. She was grateful the seamstress had managed to incorporate Hermione's own wishes of creating a modest gown whilst still producing something regal. Lady Luna adorned her hair with small white flowers which she then charmed to hold their fullest bloom. Her hair was pinned in a loose updo with several curls escaping. Her cheeks were brushed with pale rouge and her lips glossed. The overall aesthetic was stunning, but her appearance only served to make her more nervous.

Stepping away from the mirror, she lifted the sheer curtain and took a peek out of the window. There were certainly more people sitting in the garden than she'd hoped to find. It was hardly what she would consider 'a small affair.' How so many were able to escape last minute, she was sure she didn't know.

Was her appearance presentable? Would those in attendance cast judgement as soon as she stepped out on the immaculate Malfoy lawn? Was she. . . _good enough_ for Harry? Merlin, but it felt as if she were to be wedded to wizarding royalty. After years of watching countless witches fawning over her best friend and shamelessly vye for his attentions, she could hardly blame herself for worrying so. Never in her wildest imaginings had she come up with such a scenario—never had she dared. Such a notion always seemed too scandalous—too off limits—to even think about featuring in her fantasies.

Hermione sighed and ran a shaky hand through her hair, panicking when she saw a small, white flower float to the ground. She hurriedly scooped it up and tried to attach it back from whence it came, reminding herself that now was not the time for indulging in nervous habits. A part of her—a very cowardly part—wished she had taken Lady Narcissa up on her offer and accepted the crystal glass of sherry the witch had discreetly poured, if only to calm her nerves. But Hermione had not wished to imbue on such a monumental day, choosing instead to politely decline. Upon reconsidering, a little liquid courage might be just the thing. She could only imagine the stares she would receive upon exiting the manor.

She took another cursory glance outside, and let out a sharp inhale when she saw her father—standing with her groom-to-be and Draco Malfoy of all people—just outside the manor. A lump forming in her throat, she let the sheer curtain drop and pressed her back flat against the wall, her breaths coming in shallow pants. Already, Harry was following his end of the bargain. He'd assured Hermione he would get her parents entry into the wizarding world so they could visit her, and though this pass was only temporary, she had no doubt Harry would make what she was fighting so fiercely for happen far quicker than she could hope to. Unbidden, tears sprang to her eyes as she thought about reuniting with her parents. She hadn't seen them since after the war, when she'd taken a very reckless and very illegal trip into the muggle world. They'd arrived last night, and seeing them had invigorated Hermione with a sense of strength she'd desperately needed. They had so much pride for their daughter. To them—Hermione wasn't someone who was lacking in any sense, but rather was someone unique and brilliant and wonderful who any man should count himself lucky to wed. A small smile tugged at her lips. She tried to pull at that strength now, pull at her inner Narcissa Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, and endeavor to be the calm and collected witch she knew she must be if she hoped to face the angry mob who came under the guise of 'guests' to attend her wedding.

She'd heard the rumors. She knew what they were really thinking. . .expected the accusation that would likely burn in their eyes. Why the hasty wedding? What was the hurry? With none in their close circle bothering to answer questions, Society had come up with their own speculations. The most popular being that Hermione was already with child—had effectively trapped _The-Wizard-Who-Defeated-Voldemort_ —and Harry was only doing the honorable thing by her. She knew despite the strides made in the war, many still believed the wizarding world was better off without the incursion of Muggle-borns forced upon them. Hermione sank her teeth into her lower lip, worrying for her parents. A memory of Harry and Malfoy standing in close quarters to her father and speaking amicably with him flashed through her mind. Her heart lifted and she was suddenly grateful for the efforts they were taking on her behalf, whatever their motives. Her parents had no idea of the prejudices she endured, and she rather preferred to keep it that way.

It was easy to see why emulating someone like Lady Narcissa—a model of Pureblood elegance and exceptional at mingling with Society, yet keeping an imperious distance—was a good role model for Hermione. She'd watched the older witch feign polite interest and deftly deal with people with rapt attention. Lady Narcissa had always shown herself to be a brilliant hostess, but what impressed Hermione was her ability to interact with her enemies too, and captivate them just the same. That was a skill Hermione could use, especially with so much malicious gossip in the air surrounding her. Harry seemed oblivious to it all, and however nice that must be for him if not somewhat baffling, Hermione was most definitely not.

Thinking of Her Betrothed, she lamented about the fact that she'd scarcely been able to see him _at all_ the past week. In the whirlwind of wedding planning, she'd been swept up in a frenzy of activity. New and old friends had descended on her with advice and gifts and tea invitations and lunch dates. . .it had all been very tiring. But Harry, for his own part, was busy himself preparing Potter Manor for their arrival and trying to make a section of the long-abandoned home livable, or so he'd conveyed to her by Owl. Hermione would have much preferred to be their helping her soon-to-be-husband, but alas, she was kept busy. She had little time to speak with Her Intended regarding the issues bothering her, and even less time to suss through them herself.

The past week had seemed surreal—moments out of a dream—and if not for the time spent with Ladies Luna, Pansy, and Narcissa, she wouldn't even think a wedding was bound to happen. It was easy to disregard it all as some miscommunication. . .a passing fancy. . .something Harry would reconsider once he had a few days to think on it alone. Away from his company, it seemed less real and less likely to happen.

But Harry was there.

Just outside of the lavish French doors, in fact.

And soon Hermione would be joining him.

Such a revelation paved the way for doubt she'd only been able to suppress thanks to the busy week she'd had and the exhaustion she'd felt at the end of the day. Lady Pansy had been correct to be indignant—hosting a wedding in less than two weeks time was an astounding feat. But now in the eleventh hour, she couldn't help but wonder. Would she be able to go through with this? Would Harry? He had seemed so sure, but she'd scarcely seen him since. She knew how he could feel passionate about something or someone one day, and see a shift in his views the next. He was quite impulsive.

Yet she had always been a constant in Harry's life. He had never dismissed her. . .used her. . .or left her out in the cold as so many others had. His behavior thus far had earned her trust. He'd even secured travel for her parents!

No, Harry was just as dependable and reliable as he'd always been for her. If she were being honest, it was herself she was having the most doubts in. Would she really be able to fulfill the shoes of _Lady Potter_? The last Lady Potter had been a beloved, beacon of the community. Hermione recalled gazing at the magical portrait of the intimidating woman with the fiery hair and the piercing green eyes so like her son's. She'd held herself with unwavering confidence, even in a time where Muggle-borns were even more persecuted. Hermione had been hard-pressed to meet such a stare, finding herself lacking. She would never forgive herself if Harry's connection to her held him back from achieving the things he was meant to.

"Hermione!"

Hermione made a desperate attempt to rein in her frazzled nerves with all the grace she could muster, and turn to face her mother trailed closely behind by Lady Narcissa.

"It's almost time," her mother said, sweeping into the room, a twinkle in her eye, "are you ready, dear?"

"Of course," Hermione tried to assure her, packing her veins with resolve and determination. "Ready as ever."

"You look stunning, darling," Lady Narcissa said, her eyes holding approval one rarely saw from the witch. "Quite the beautiful bride."

Hermione preened under the compliment, and some of her unease left her.

Her mother nodded. "Your groom is a lucky man."

She couldn't help but smirk and duck her eyes. So very like her mother to perceive Harry was the lucky one, but Hermione took small comfort in the remark, just the same. She looked up stoically. "We're both fortunate."

Her hands clenched into fists, discreetly buried into the material by her sides. There was no time to second guess the decision any further—she made her choice and she would make the best of it. She resolved to waste no further time wallowing in self-pity and worrying herself to death. It was her wedding day, and though their union was to be one of friendship and loyalty rather than romance and passion, she still counted herself extremely fortunate.

**~oOo*oOo~**

Time passed in a perpetual blur.

Hermione didn't remember when the wedding ended, and just when the reception started, but their vows still rang shrilly in her ears.

 _Blood of my blood,_  
And bone of my bone,  
I pledge you my body, my spirit, so we shall be one.  
On my honor and my magic.

Such binding words. So archaic. So. . . _romantic_. She knew she shouldn't read too much into them, but she'd certainly meant them. And for Harry's part. . .She still recalled the way in which Harry had looked at her. In an uncharacteristic turn of events, she'd met his gaze unflinchingly. The lopsided smirk he always seemed to wear was absent, his features absolutely stoic and solemn. Had he meant them? Did the words mean as much to him as they did to her?

Her ring finger tingled and burned—a reminder of the intricate loops emblazoned on her skin. She paused to rub it, as if to soothe the puffiness brought on by the ancient spell.

She was well and truly Harry's now—the mark may as well be a branding—but somehow. . . Hermione didn't feel like Harry was _hers._ The notion absolutely gnawed at her. She'd no idea where such a possessive feeling had come from, and could only surmise it was some latent effect of their vows. She made a valiant effort to brush the feeling aside, and focus instead on the here and now.

Harry was guiding her to the corner of the Malfoy gardens. The sky had taken on a distinct, dark blue hue, making the faeries lighting the trees shine brighter over the gorgeous table settings. Her eyes strayed over the centerpieces made of freshly plucked ferns, lilies, orchids, and gold roses, accented by floating pearl-encrusted candles. Hermione felt dazed.

A flash momentarily blinded her.

"A smile for the camera, dear?"

She felt nauseous when the spots in her visions cleared enough for her to identify Rita Skeeter, grinning maniacally enough to give Bellatrix Lestrange a run for her Galleons. Hermione could only imagine how her expression must have looked whilst she was caught unawares.

Harry—comfortable in his celebrity as he was—paused to drape his arm around her waist in a decidedly intimate manner, and pull her close. Hermione was confounded by the proximity, which only just yesterday would have been deemed improper, but now was perfectly fine. She caught sight of Lady Narcissa, and remembered to mask her feelings. She exhaled a deep breath, and smiled calmly for the camera, enduring several more magical flashes.

"Brilliant," Miss Skeeter clapped her hands to her chest, "and on behalf of my readers, let me be the first to congratulate Britain's heroes on your rather. . . _hasty_ nuptials."

Hermione tried not to bristle.

Harry didn't bat an eyelash, emerald eyes sparkling with mirth. "Thank you for your well wishes, Miss Skeeter. I'm happy to see you managed to finagle our little event into your busy schedule."

Miss Skeeter let out an indelicate snort. "Well, when two thirds of the Golden Trio wed, of course I wouldn't miss it for the world. But tell me," she arched an eyebrow, "why so sudden?"

Hermione grit her teeth. Skeeter didn't mince words.

"Why settle on," her eyes wandered over the lavish ground seeming to measure the manor's strengths and weaknesses, " _this setting_. I won't bother asking just when a love affair between the two of you started. If you remember, I was the first to break _that_ story."

Hermione reined in a snort, and noticed a muscle tighten by Harry's eye.

"We're very grateful to Viscount Malfoy and his mother for welcoming us to their home," Hermione stated cooley. "Harry and I couldn't have asked for a more glorious venue or more gracious hosts."

Miss Skeeter crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. Hermione hoped she would print that for her story. The positive press would be good for the Malfoys.

Harry looped his arm in hers. "If you'll excuse us, Miss Skeeter. Hermione and I have guests to attend to, and a wedding night to get underway," he added with a mischievous smirk that made Hermione burn crimson.

"Hmph," Skeeter pouted, "but surely you have time for an old friend?"

Hermione tried not to gape. The witch certainly had a lot of nerve.

Fortunately, Lady Narcissa chose that moment to intervene on their behalf. "Miss Skeeter," she said, her tone slightly scolding, "you don't want to keep the newlyweds from their festivities, now do you?" Skeeter tried to argue, but Lady Narcissa silenced her. "No, I don't believe you do." She signaled her son. "Now why don't you let the Viscount give you a tour of the grounds? My son is an excellent guide. You may stop and take photographs if you like."

Miss Skeeter shrugged. "My readers do like a redeemed bad boy," she flashed him a smirk to which he instantly returned, "besides, perhaps I might run into a guest or two I can interview along the way."

Harry steered Hermione away whispering into her ear about how _some things never change_. Lady Narcissa and Lady Pansy rushed up to them.

"Are you alright?" Lady Pansy asked, twisting her hands anxiously. "I don't know how that crazy, old bat got in here." She cast her a withering stare over her shoulder.

Lady Narcissa pursed her lips. "How indeed," she said, her tone crisp, and eyes narrowing on Lady Pansy. "I would think the guest list far too exclusive."

Lady Pansy swallowed, her eyes wide, but held her mentor's gaze.

"We're fine," Hermione was compelled to assure her. "We're used to Miss Skeeter's antics by now."

Harry nodded. "The witch does have her ways."

Lady Narcissa inclined her head fractionally. "Pansy? Be a dear a make sure everyone has their flutes full."

"Yes, of course." She did a slight curtsey and headed off to find the head house elf.

"My apologies," Lady Narcissa said again, once she'd left. "Miss Skeeter can be. . .problematic."

"I prefer her in _beatle form_ ," Harry whispered conspiratorially.

A smile tugged at the Malfoy matriarch's lips, hinting to Hermione that Lady Narcissa knew just what Harry was referring to.

"Lady Pansy was extremely careful with disclosing the location of the venue," Hermione couldn't help but defend her former Slytherin nemesis, "she leaked false locations to the press."

"Did she now?" The only sign Lady Narcissa was impressed was a slight arch of a delicate brow. "She's smarter than I thought. Now, do take a moment to greet your guests before you sit down to your meal."

Hermione found a line of sorts already forming—people who wanted to pay their respects. Trepidation built in her chest. She tried to rally her spirits, telling herself if she could face Skeeter and her invasive questions, surely she could face anyone. Her hand found Harry's and she gave it a light squeeze.

And then it started.

One after another, their guests came to pay their respects.

To Hermione's surprise, she didn't find the judgement or accusation she expected to see. These were old school friends. . .people who had fought alongside them in the war. . .Ministry officials. There may have been some surprise. . .Harry may have been graced with some winks and knowing looks. . .but overall people seemed genuinely happy for them. Her heartbeat was finally finding a normal pace to settle on.

But then Harry had to go and talk to her in between greetings.

"You know," he leaned close enough to whisper in her ear, and she had to fight the urge to tuck her chin against the ensuing shivers she felt, "you completely threw me."

She remembered the way he'd stopped short when he saw her, the easy-going expression on his face dropping as he'd seemed to turn to stone. Her eyes had been out of focus until settling on him. The music was drowned out by the rushing in her ears. She'd relied on her father to guide her along the long path and to the altar. She hadn't paid any of those in attendance the time of day, nor could she truly appreciate the magical skill of Luna Lovegood and the way she'd charmed the flowers to bloom and the grass to grow on either side of the aisle, but Lady Pansy would tell her all about it later. That was the scene that came to mind as Harry spoke to her.

"I almost didn't recognize you," he half-joked, before sobering up to greet another guest. "Your hair," he tried to explain, and Hermione strained to hear. Then he caught a stray curl between and softly rubbed it between his fingertips. She caught her breath. "So glossy."

Hermione felt like she might swoon. The ringing in her ears was back with a vengeance. Once again, the night took on a dream-like sheen to it. His reaction to her unwillingly caused her to think of her reaction _to him_. Unwillingly, because she _did not_ want to think about that right now in the presence of so many strangers. But he was gorgeous, wasn't he? Cutting such a fine figure in his black dress robes, like he did. His hair was—for once—tamed, save for a stray lock in his fringe that didn't wish to comply. One small rebellion, she'd thought fondly. His cufflinks and cravat were accented in silver. A powerful aura clung to him, every once in a while lashing out to tease her own lingering magic. His bright, green eyes shone with a piercing intensity Hermione was helplessly captivated by.

In short, he took her breath away.

And. . .it was almost as if he were _flirting with her._

 _Get a handle on your nerves,_ she chided herself, sure she was reading far too much into the remark. He was just trying to be kind. . .put her at ease. . .compliment his new wife. There was no reason for the giddy feeling that rose in her chest.

Still, she faced the next guest with a radiant smile in place.

The next guest who happened to be one Miss Weasley—the senior Miss Weasley.

Her smile dropped and she fell into a curtsy, only realizing too little too late that it was now unbefitting her station. Miss Weasley should be inclining her head in deference _to her_ at such a formal gathering.

She did not.

Feeling like the world was spinning, she braced onto Harry for support.

"My congratulations," Miss Weasley offered, but the sentiment was undermined by her clipped tone. "What a momentous occasion."

Hermione ventured a look up and wasn't surprised to see disapproval rampant in the Weasley matriarch's eyes.

"Lord Potter," she turned to face Harry, and her eyes softened, "Harry. You've always been _like a son_ to me." She grasped his hands in hers and stared fondly at him. Then she turned to face Hermione, and Miss Weasley's gaze turned chilly. "And Miss Granger," her brow arched severely, "how things certainly seem to be looking up for you."

Beside her, someone snickered, and Hermione registered the younger Weasley—Ginevra—standing sentry beside her mother and casting the same look of thinly veiled distaste. Hermione tried to console herself with the knowledge that they were never her friends—they only tolerated her for Harry and Ronald's sake. But to Harry, they'd always looked out for his best interests. Hermione feared that such a harsh reaction to their union would cause Harry to consider his decision in a new way—in the way she had been trying to get him to see from the very beginning.

To her horror, Harry loosened his grip on her and Hermione was forced to let go. Shame rose in her throat. He was embarrassed of her, as she feared he would be. It had taken someone he looked up to as a mother-like figure to get him to see, but of course _he would_ eventually see. It was only a matter of time.

"Actually Miss Weasley," Harry replied just as crisply, "it's _Lady Potter_ now, and I'd venture to say things seem to be looking up for the _both of us._ "

Hermione was sure she was gaping, and most unbecomingly at that. Had Harry really stuck up. . . _for her_? To be fair, she supposed he'd stuck up for her countless times, but against _the Weasleys_? The idea seemed far too radical to be real. Is that what being his wife would mean—choosing her over all others? She felt like the moment was important—the first test of their vows. If she weren't so shocked, she'd beaming with pride. Instead she stood slack-jawed.

Miss Weasley reared away from the admonishment, no doubt surprised to see that notorious Potter ire focused squarely on her. She mumbled her apologies and averted her gaze, then turned to usher her daughter by. Hermione stared anew at the daring ensemble the youngest Weasley chose to don. The scoop of her gown afforded an ample and rather scandalous view of her cleavage.

Realizing she was staring Hermione tore her eyes away, accidentally meeting Ginevra's. To her credit, she appeared unconcerned by the daring fashion choice and turned her nose in the air, but upon further inspection Hermione saw a slight blush on her cheeks. Driven by a bout of insecurity, Hermione's head turned sharply to see where Harry was looking. She was surprised to find his mouth tightly closed, and his tongue pressing against his cheek—a telltale sign he was trying not to grin. But when Ginevra turned her attention on him, he transitioned into the perfect gentlemen, placing a chaste kiss on the palm of her hand and keeping his eyes trained soberly on hers as he thanked her for her attendance.

The entire interaction was bloody _jolting._

The deft way in which Harry dealt with the Weasley women and deflected their advances was inspiring. Hermione knew it was selfish, but she was pleased with the way Harry had placed her above those she'd always deemed the closest to him.

Arthur Weasley made a notable effort to ease the tension between their two families. Sir Charles Weasley was a breath of fresh air, always a welcome guest to host, and certainly an easy-going fellow. Percy was unnotably absent. By the time George and William and his wife paid their respects, the slight was all but forgotten.

Hermione found herself riveted on William and Harry's conversation—some vague plan to meet up and discuss the Lestrange Syndicate, but they wouldn't expound further in 'polite company.' Hermione felt her heart give a painful clench. She could just imagine Harry trapezing off with William on some heroic mission, and leaving her behind without a second thought. How she longed to be included! How she missed the days when Harry went out to his way to include her. Of course she supposed there was plenty she could busy herself with in London and all with Harry's blessing. That was something to be thankful for, at least.

The tension rose several levels once more as Ronald stopped short before him. Hermione shifted anxiously as Harry and Ronald exchanged a heated glance for several agonizing seconds. Then Ronald broke into a grin, and reached out to shake Harry's hand, before turning to Hermione and using her own outstretched hand to pull her in for a kiss on the cheek—something he'd only done once before at the end of the war and at a victory jubilee at the end of war. It was equally as daunting now, as it was then, but she appreciated the effort he was trying to make. Harry's only acknowledgement was a slight tightening of the jaw.

Minister Shacklebolt was the next to provide well wishes and apologies to Hermione for neglecting to answer her Owls, claiming some difficulty with a new secretary. For her part, she decided it was only polite _not to_ push, though she fully realized the change in attitude had less to do with a 'secretary mix-up' and more to do with the change in her family name. She held back a scowl, trying not to think of the curses she'd deflected for the wizard in the heat of battle, though she supposed he'd also deflected some for her.

The tension dissipated completely when Professor Slughorn arrived, appearing so overjoyed it was almost endearing.

"I see what you're doing," he said, taking Harry's arm and giving it a good shake, "make the affair last minute and small so as to make it _exclusive_ ," his voice lowered as if divulging a secret.

Hermione smiled as he winked at her. She'd always liked him. While other professors had made her feel less than, had made her feel afraid to volunteer answers in class, Professor Slughorn had encouraged that behavior in her, brought out that part of her that strived to learn and hear praise for a job well done. He'd allowed her to _join Slug Club_ , a controversial decision and prestigious position for a Muggle-born to hold. Yet Professor Slughorn didn't seem to put too much stock in prejudices—he recognized an individual for their gifts.

Before she knew it, she was seated at the head table. Her mother proved a comforting companion to her left, and her father sat on Harry's right. She tried not to think about how Harry had run through parental figures that _should_ be sitting there, but she did anyway. Perhaps it should have been Arthur Weasley or the Minister or Professor McGonnagal or Hagrid but no. . .it was her father and the gesture wasn't lost on her.

Lady Pansy appeared to be doing a good job instructing the elves, and Hermione's own flute stayed constantly full thanks to elf magic. The next time the world spun, it wasn't due to her nerves.

Spirits were high, and her mother and Lady Narcissa seemed to be getting along swimmingly. Hermione looked over to see Harry joking and laughing with her father, her father—who earlier that week—had expressed concern over the sporadic wedding and ironically in Her Betrothed. Harry, as ever, managed to enthrall him with his charms as he did everyone else. Damn the man for making her fall in love with him all over again! As if she needed another reason to be besotted with him.

Hermione sat through speeches ranging from heartfelt to drunken. She danced with every Lord and Knight and Viscount who asked for her hand, until she finally ended her revelry with Harry. Like that night so long ago in the Forest of Dean, Harry took her in his arms and pulled her close against his chest so he could gently sway them both, but unlike that night, they were surrounded by onlookers. Still, she held him close and tuned everyone else out, choosing to pretend it was only she and Harry. His attention was on his guests, so he wouldn't notice if she held him too tightly or rested her head against his shoulder. Locked in the object of her affection's embrace, it was easy to forget her worries and concerns. She took advantage of his distraction and let herself enjoy the moment.

After dessert was served and they went back to their seats, she was too preoccupied by the faeries dotting the trees to initially snap to the light touch grazing her arm. But it was Harry's touch so it gradually stirred her. When she pulled her eyes away from the foliage of trees, she was startled to find earnest green eyes staring back at her and not nearly as focused on other people as she'd assumed.

Once more, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "You're going to love the manor."

She nodded. Of course she would! How could she not? It was more than she'd always hoped for.

His hand still rubbed her arm and she found it difficult to focus.

"Well," his head fell against her neck and she felt him smile across her skin, "only the one wing is up. . .is livable," his voice took on a sheepish lilt, "but it's only a matter—"

"I don't mind," she assured him, "I like fixing things."

He pulled away and Hermione hoped he saw the sincerity burning in her eyes. She desperately wanted to help restore the manor to its prior glory, to be part of such an effort. She wanted that experience with him. It was special to her.

His resultant smile was so brilliant, it was like she was once again blinded by the flashes of Skeeter's camera contraption.

His gaze was too intense, so she found the trees again, but this time she was aware of his eyes still on her.

She wasn't sure how much time passed before he spoke again.

"Hermione," and was it just her, or did something about his voice seem. . .hesitant. . .vulnerable. . .unsure? "I'm tired of this."

Hermione was about to ask what _this_ was, when he plunged on.

"Ready?" he inquired softly, and she could feel his eyes burning into the side of her skull.

 _Ready for what_ , she wanted to scream. It felt like her heart wanted to leap from her chest. Sweat culminated on her temples and her fingers tangled helplessly in her lap.

"The. . .well. . .you'd said—" Oh that was just wonderful. She sounded like a bumbling idiot. Couldn't she just. . . _be a woman_ and simply asked him the question that was truly troubling her? She sighed, twisting her hands in frustration. It sounded so much better in her head. _Did you change your mind, Harry? Do you want to consummate the marriage after all? Just ask! Get a hold of yourself and ask!_

But she waited too long and Harry was already speaking again. "We've indulged our guests long enough. It's time I take you to the manor. You're going to love it."

**~oOo*oOo~**


End file.
